


Haven't I killed you somewhere before?

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, DJD on their best behaviour, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Autobot walks into a bar and a certain other patron is very confused.  He's absolutely convinced he's killed this fellow somewhere before.  That's how Tailgate ends up drinking with the DJD...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deja Vu

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for MTMTE 32 and 33. 
> 
> This is a silly little humor fic, but it references some dark and traumatic canon events. 
> 
> Also, the DJD are traumatized at the prospect of having to behave themselves in public.

_Haven’t I killed you somewhere before?_

There was just no socially acceptable way to ask that question of another Cybertronian. Tarn watched in shock as a small, curvy, and very much alive minibot made his way into the pub, optics sweeping left and right. Tarn could have sworn…would have sworn to _Lord Megatron himself_...that he’d personally terminated this mechanism, and yet here the little Autobot was, walking through the crowd, looking none the worse for wear.

The commander of the Decepticon Justice Division dropped his gaze to the red fizzy drink he’d just ordered and eyed it skeptically. He could still taste the lingering flavour of his first sip inside his mouth. There weren’t many hallucinogens that worked so _fast_ , but…

Tarn set the drink back on the bar and shoved it aside.

No point in taking _chances._

The bartender was busily mixing the drinks Tarn had just ordered for the rest of the DJD. A glance over his shoulder showed Helex and Kaon in animated conversation, Tesarus playing a handheld game and Vos observing the others. Clearly, none of them had noticed the living dead bot.

Tarn shot another glance at the Autobot as he meandered by, craning his neck as though he were searching for someone. 

One did not become commander of the DJD by leaving loose ends lying around.

Tarn wanted some answers. Now. The trick was figuring out how to ask. Tarn examined, and discarded, a number of possible alternate versions of the question:

_So, have you had a girder through your chest lately?_

_Could you please scream for your life and I’ll let you know if it sounds familiar?_

By the time he got down to _got DJD_? Tarn had given up on the possibility of asking nicely.

Unfortunately, he was sitting in a pub called _The Last Best Stop—_ the one place in the universe where he could _not_ just grab the little Autobot and crush the answer out of him, right before crushing the life out of him.

Oh, it wasn’t that anyone was _stopping_ him, exactly. With the rest of the DJD close at hand, Tarn was certain he had more than enough firepower to outmatch anything this place could throw at him. 

He just didn’t want to lose something he could only get here.

Van Dorzen’s Moon, a naturally mechanical world with abundant energy reserves and beautiful native landscapes, had once been an exotic luxury vacation destination for well-off Cybertronians. The Dorzu had built a series of galactic jump portals, one of which was paired with a second portal not far from Cybertron. Back in the Golden Age, the Cybertronian elite had come to Van Dorzen’s Moon to play and relax and throw shanix around. Tarn sighed, having fond memories of those days.

With the war, though, the Cybertronian economy shifted towards military spending and away from travel and the arts. The tourist traffic through the Cybertron gate shrank from a flood to a trickle. When Decepticon-Autobot conflicts began on the moon itself, the Dorzu had had enough. They blew up the jump portal on their end, cutting off Cybertron from the faraway delights of Van Dorzen’s Moon.

The DJD had, several centuries after moving to Messatine, found a wormhole that happened to end in the vicinity of Van Dorzen’s Moon. They’d dropped by on a whim, just to see what had become of the place that had once been the playground of Cybertron’s rich and famous.

They’d been pleasantly surprised to discover that Little Iacon was still standing, though most of the old businesses had closed and new ones opened in the spaces they’d once occupied. The new establishments catered to a wide range of mechanical species, of which Cybertronians were definitely in the minority. And…most shocking of all… _absolutely nobody had recognized the DJD._ It made for a most unique holiday experience.

It wasn’t as though the DJD didn’t enjoy relaxing in establishments like this one. It was mostly that the script had become so predictable. The DJD would walk in, be given everything they wanted by very attentive staff who nevertheless did their best not to get too close, and then some idiot would put his faith in the bouncers or the automated security systems or some old weapon bolted under the bar. That was when the party _really_ got started. When the DJD were the last living things in the place, they’d clean out the currency drives, sack the kitchens and get down to some serious drinking, which usually involved stupid bets and hauling Helex’s severely overenergized frame back to the _Peaceful Tyranny_.

It was fun—but after a few centuries, it got old.

 _The Last Best Stop_ was a refreshing novelty in that regard. The DJD could take a booth and be treated just like ordinary customers. The fuel was very good, though not spectacular, and the service was mediocre, but the ability to sit back and enjoy the band on stage was absolutely priceless. Music just sounded _off_ when the people playing were in mortal fear for their lives. It ruined the tone, somehow.

The management even let Tarn take the mic on occasion, and when he did, he did his best to return the favour and lace his voice with pleasure and the urge for a drink or six. It was only fair, after all.

So, given that _The Last Best Stop_ was the DJD’s favourite pub in the _one_ place in the universe where they could go unrecognized and experience a private, no-stress night of downtime, Tarn was not inclined to ruin his good name on Van Dorzen’s Moon by torturing and slaughtering a minibot in full view of the bar’s staff and patrons, no matter how badly he wanted an answer to his question.

Fortunately, there was another way around the problem. All he had to do was get the little Autobot’s attention. The odds were high that the Autobot would scream and make a run for the door; then Tarn could follow him, pull him into an alleyway, and squeeze answers out of him at leisure. If Tarn was mistaken? A quick smash of the brain and he’d be done, back with the rest of the DJD in ten minutes or less.

The small blue and white Autobot hesitated just a few steps past Tarn, clambering up on a bar stool to give himself some height and searching the crowd again. Tarn closed the distance between them and leaned down to tap his quarry on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” he said, projecting soothing calm into his voice.

The minibot turned.

His optics flashed brilliantly with panic. Tarn was very familiar with that expression. Any moment now, the quarry would run, and…

“You’re a Decepticon,” the Autobot squeaked.

Tarn tilted his head, bewildered. Yes, he was a Decepticon. _Was the badge-shaped mask a sufficient clue?_

Then Tarn experienced a creeping sense of unreality, because there was a very distinct difference between _You’re a Decepticon_ and some variation on _You’re Tarn, You’re the DJD, You can’t be here, You’ve got it all wrong because I’m innocent,_ and all those other normal conversation-openers between himself and the mechanism he was about to kill.

Tarn was not used to being just a run-of-the-mill Decepticon.

“Yes,” Tarn purred, recovering quickly, layering his voice with smooth, appealing harmonics. “I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you, but…have we met somewhere before?”

_Your ship? While you were fleeing for your life? Through the corpses of your associates? Down to the engine room, where you could die alone and forgotten, hearing your shipmates pounding feet on the decks above, knowing no one was coming for you, knowing no one even remembered you? Do you remember how your final sounds were not screaming, but weeping? Do you recall any of that?_

“I…I don’t think so,” the minibot stammered, optics still wide. He wove his fingers together in a nervous gesture, but he wasn’t screaming, and he wasn’t running.

Tarn considered the possibility that he was mistaken. He certainly didn’t remember everyone he’d killed, and some Cybertronians looked very much alike, particularly those MTO’s who were constructed cold in large factory runs. A thousand identical mechanisms rolling off an assembly line—it was easy to mistake one for another.

But Tarn remembered this one. It hadn’t been all that long ago that the DJD had struck Overlord off the List and decimated the crew of the _Lost Light_. He remembered the strange green colour of his innermost energon when Tarn drove the girder through his chest. It had spattered onto Tarn, and it had stunk—the stink had lingered for days. 

He remembered that same voice crying for someone named Cyclonus with his last breath. 

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Tarn said. “Let me buy you a drink to apologize.” His mask hid the corner of his mouth curving in a smile as he salted his words with subliminal coercion: _comply, agree, accept_.

“I don’t…I…” The little bot looked over his shoulder one last time, and then said, “I don’t hang out with Decepticons.”

Tarn felt…oh, what was the word for this emotion? _Put out_. Almost offended that he wasn’t getting the response he’d been hoping for. It had been a very, very long time since Tarn had felt slighted in this way. Who had been responsible the last time? Probably Soundwave, monopolizing Lord Megatron’s attention.

The idea of feeling this way over being dismissed by an Autobot was beyond ludicrous, and Tarn itched to spool up his fusion cannons and be done with it, but there was the _pub_ to consider and…

The minibot was still looking up at him, rubbing his tiny chin. “But I guess the war’s over, right?” 

So, Tarn’s subliminal trap had worked, and yet the warm glow of satisfaction in his chest barely made up for the foul taste in his mouth as he forced himself to choke out an affirmative. “Yes, that’s right,” Tarn said, lying like an absolute master, because the war would _never_ be over until Lord Megatron said it was over, and Lord Megatron would never say it was over until the universe lay in wreckage at his feet. There was still so very much death to deal, and that was how Tarn knew the war would keep going for a very, very long time to come. 

But for now he would lie to the minibot. “And now we’re all friends here.” 

“I guess,” the minibot admitted reluctantly.

Tarn’s engine rumbled with satisfaction as he took the seat next to his target. He still had it—the persuasiveness he’d used back in the days before the fusion cannon on his back had started doing so much persuading on his behalf. “What would you like to drink?”

The little one stared at the drink list and racks of fuel canisters as though overwhelmed by the choices available. “What’s good here?” he asked.

“Blitzed Seeker, War Dawn and Rusty Angel,” Tarn said, deliberately naming the three most intoxicating beverages a patron could order without signing a waiver. This was going to be _easy_. Get the minibot fendered, ask questions, and let the engex do the talking. Then decide if he needed to carry his new friend out the door, into the alley, and finish the job he’d started on the _Lost Light_.

“I’ve never had any of those,” the minibot pipped.

Tarn smiled broadly, and realized too late his mask disguised it. It had been a long time since he’d had to let body language do the talking and he was no good at it—at least when it wasn’t for a given variation on _terror_. Tarn was about to smoothly suggest that the Autobot try _all three_ when a bartender approached and the minibot said, “Um, I think I’ll just have a weak energon spritzer.”

 _That_ would teach Tarn not to stack the deck when offering choices. Next time he would make _Blitzed Seeker_ the most attractive of those options. So much for his plan of getting the little bot drunk and talkative any time soon. He could still hope that intoxication would loosen the Autobot’s voxcoder, but it would take so much time.

How _did_ the Cobalt Sentries do it?

Tarn sighed and ordered a War Dawn for himself, because he was going to _need_ it.


	2. Blast from the Past

“My name’s Tailgate. What’s your name?” the Autobot said, his optic light squinting in a smile.

The leader of the DJD answered almost automatically. “T…”

_Smelt me down!_

As _if_ he could _tell the truth_ and not send his prey running!

Stalling for time, Tarn feigned a cough, managing to sustain it until the bartender arrived with their drinks. His transformation cog absolutely _crawled_ with the urge to change form. That was what he _really_ wanted—the flawless artistry and perfect control that came from converting from one shape to another—and he couldn’t do it because who wants a tank in a bar? _Nobody_.

He grabbed the drink placed in front of him, pulled the straw out of his previous beverage, and took a long sip.

The minibot watched Tarn with an expression that looked a lot like concern. Tailgate was sipping away at his weak energon spritzer through a curly straw that went from the drink into a rudimentary induction port. Not even a proper mouth. Tarn tried his hardest not to stare. These days most mechanisms forged, or even built, without mouths upgraded to get them in short order. Even those who wore plates overtop of them. It was a rare Cybertronian indeed who didn’t have a mouth. How did this poor bot even taste his drink?

_Taste…_

_This_ wasn’t a War Dawn. It looked…and _smelled…_ like one of those disgusting Dynobot Demolishers that Tesarus insisted on drinking to prove how “badass” he was. _Revolting_. Tarn pulled his straw out and shook it off, looking for his original drink. He no longer cared if the Tagan Sunrise was spiked, as long as it killed this taste. 

“Are you okay?” asked Tailgate. The little Autobot even _put his hand_ on Tarn’s arm.

Tarn nodded distractedly. For some reason there were six drinks in front of him. His original Tagan Sunrise—likely not spiked, since the bartender also perceived the living dead bot—a War Dawn, the vile Dynobot Demolisher, and three other drinks on a tray. Extra drinks that seemed vaguely familiar and _yes the entire reason he was up here at the bar in the first place was because it was his turn to buy a round for…_

Tarn turned around. His comrades had clearly gotten tired of waiting for their drinks. Kaon and Vos were halfway across the floor, with Helex not far behind them.

_Oh, frag, here come the DJD!_

…Was _this_ how everyone else felt when Tarn’s unit showed up? This sense of sharp alarm, ominous foresight and the crushing pressure of impending doom? Tarn supposed that for most bots the sensation was augmented by sheer tank-draining terror, but this feeling was plenty bad enough as it was. The DJD were going to show up here and they were going to _ruin everything_.

“Um, mister?” The Autobot was still patting Tarn’s arm. “I don’t want to alarm you, but there are some creepy-looking guys looking at us and coming this way. And the big one is making weird sloshing sounds.”

Tailgate was naïve. Naïve and stupid were two different things. Tailgate was plenty smart enough to realize that the coming of the DJD was cause for concern, even if he didn’t recognize them for who they were.

Mercifully, they’d left Tesarus to hold the table, with his handheld game console to entertain him. Tarn had at least a small hope in the Pit that the other three would follow his lead and play along. 

“Why, _yes_ ,” Tarn purred, because it was too late to deny it. “Those are my _friends_.”

And then, Tarn got an idea.

A _terrible_ idea.

Tarn got a _wonderful, awful_ idea.

“You don’t really think they look _creepy_ , do you?” he asked with mock worry lacing his voice. “That seems a frightfully _awful_ thing to say. So _judgmental.”_

Tailgate blinked. “But…” he pipped. “That one guy doesn’t have any _eyes_. And the skinny one has a weird head.” His optics traced the seams of Vos’ detachable face.

“ _You_ have a weird head,” Tarn countered. “And you don’t have any _mouth_. How would _you_ like to be called creepy?”

Tailgate looked at the ground. “I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “And…and people used to tell me I smelled like garbage. I couldn’t help it. I was a _waste disposal_ bot.” He showed Tarn his arm, where his profession had been inscribed in big block letters. “You can’t work with garbage all day and not smell like garbage, and after a while I barely noticed it, but everyone else did and they always commented on it. I guess your big friend…he can’t help those funny noises, can he?”

“He can’t,” Tarn agreed, though really Helex _could_ , if he’d only finish smelting who he started smelting, instead of taking them out when they were only partially-melted and playing with them some more. It triggered his acid production pumps to keep taking people in and out and back in again, and…

“I’m sorry I said mean things about your friends,” Tailgate said quietly, and he really _did_ look sorry, hanging his head in contrition. Tarn was used to apologies that were shrieked, not whispered, and he once again found himself almost at a loss what to do.

“Never mind,” Tarn said dismissively, patting Tailgate on the head. “The demon is always a stranger in the dark. In the light of familiarity, he loses his fangs.” It was a line from an old Cybertronian play. Even the gesture was imitated from a performance of _A Song Of Two States_ that Tarn had seen long ago. In the absence of any natural ability to reassure, Tarn decided he could be forgiven for borrowing some lines from the classics. 

Waste disposal bots didn’t get a lot of culture, and Tailgate lapped it up, never knowing that Tarn’s words and actions were entirely plagiarized. “That’s very clever. Do you mind if I borrow it?”

“Go right ahead,” Tarn said indulgently. Someone else could educate the minibot on the origin of the verse. Assuming he lived that long.

“I’ll probably have a lot of occasions to use it. You know, now that us Autobots and you Decepticons are all friends.” The minibot beamed. 

Tarn sighed. “Why don’t you help me carry these over to our table?” he asked, gesturing to the drinks on the bar.

“Okay,” Tailgate said agreeably.

Tarn waved to the others. It was a gesture they’d recognize as a signal of positive developments. Helex stopped in his tracks, looking confused. Kaon beamed a million-watt smile that flashed warning lights inside Tarn’s brain. Vos was rubbing his hands together in a familiar pattern indicating anticipation and… _damn it._ Tarn was going to have to tell them to behave themselves. Without freaking out the little Autobot who was walking up to them just as he would to any group of new friends.

Tarn hastily fell into step beside Tailgate and said loudly, “We’ve got room for one more at our booth, right?”

Helex raised an optic ridge as he took his seat across from Tesarus.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Kaon said as he accepted his drink. “In fact, I know _exactly_ where to find another _chair_.”

“I don’t think we’ll be needing any of that,” Tarn said sternly. Kaon’s smile fell.

“It’s all right,” Tailgate pipped. “There’s lots of room still.” He clambered up next to Tesarus without a care in the world. Tarn quickly moved to sit on the minibot’s other side, allowing Kaon and Vos to take the bench opposite, next to Helex.

Tesarus was engrossed in his game, but not so much that he didn’t notice a non-DJD member next to him. The size difference was laughable. Tailgate could fit through Tesarus’ grinder with room to spare.

“Wow, you’re really big,” Tailgate said. “My name’s Tailgate, what’s yours?”

“Tes…” 

Tarn made a slashing-throat gesture. Helex kicked Tesarus under the table. Tesarus let out a cry of pain.

“Tes-owww? That’s a funny name,” Tailgate remarked.

“What did you do that for?” Tesarus growled, rubbing his shin and glaring at Helex.

“These are my associates,” Tarn purred, “Ess…” He gestured at Tesarus. “Ell…” Helex. “Kay…” Kaon. “Vee.” Vos. “And I go by Arr.”

“So your names are just letters?”

“They’re call signs. Like code names. We’ve used them so much, it’s like we’ve forgotten our old names. We just respond to these ones so much better.”

“Oh,” Tailgate said. “Like nicknames. That makes sense! Did your boss give you your new names?”

Kaon beamed. “ _Precisely_.”

“Did you guys like that? I mean, I think it would be weird to have someone come along and tell you he was giving you a whole new name.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Helex with a jolly smile, “we were _honoured_ to be part of this team.”

Over Tailgate’s head, Tesarus made a gesture of pounding the minibot with his fist. Tarn shook his head and made the cut-throat gesture again, then pointed to Tesarus, just so it was absolutely clear who would be getting the hurt. Tesarus flinched, looking aggrieved. 

“So, what do you guys do?” Tailgate asked.

Vos did a double take. Helex chuckled. Kaon tilted his head in clear interest, his smile growing again. Tesarus looked heavenward.

“Oh, nothing very interesting,” Tarn said. “We’d rather hear about _you_.”

“Really?” Tailgate beamed. “Well, I guess I do have a lot of good stories. I’m one of the crew of the _Lost Light_.”

Tarn felt his fuel lines run cold. “The _Lost Light_.” Yes, he knew that name, and that the DJD had _definitely_ killed the crew of the _Lost Light_ somewhere before. 

Were they getting… _sloppy_? Could they have missed one?

Or had this bot left the ship before the DJD arrived?

“Yeah,” Tailgate continued, unaware of Tarn’s confusion. “You know, Rodimus chose a handpicked crew of Cybertron’s finest to journey forth into the universe and find the Knights of Cybertron?” The minibot’s optics flashed with sudden inspiration. “I don’t suppose you guys know anything about them?”

Five Decepticons silently shook their heads in the negative.

“Oh. Well, thanks anyway. It was worth a try.”

Tarn said, “That sounds like a very exciting mission. You must have had all kinds of adventures.”

“Well…Yes. Actually yes we have.”

“Why don’t you tell us about them?” And, hopefully, tell them something that would solve this irritating mystery.

The minibot’s optics grew wide. “Really? You really want to hear this?”

“Oh, yes,” Tarn reassured him. “We want to hear _everything_.”

Tailgate beamed. “Okay, well, I guess it all started on takeoff, the engines did something funny and threw us way off course, and there was an explosion, and it ripped a hole in the ship and some guys got sucked out, so we rescued them, most of them anyway, and then Skids showed up! Also a sparkeater got out, it was locked in the basement, and it was super scary until Rodimus lured it to the quantum engines and folded it into the engine block! I share a hab suite with Cyclonus, he’s really cool, a lot of other people don’t like him because he’s too cool for them!”

“Boring,” Tesarus said, and returned to his game.

Tailgate put his hand on his hips. “We went to Delphi, and Ratchet and Drift and Pipes got a terrible disease, and…”

“Wait,” said Helex, looking uncomfortable. “What kind of disease?”

“Red Rust.”

Helex looked ill, and started checking his hands.

Tarn didn’t recall any sign of that traitor Drift looking the least bit unwell. Or the Chief Medical Officer, for that matter. Then something else Tailgate said jogged his memory.

“Did you say Delphi? On Messatine?”

“Yeah!”

“Did you see…Pharma?” Tarn inquired.

Kaon made an expression that caused Tarn to scowl behind his mask. A mech with no optic glass shouldn’t be able to roll his optics so obviously.

Too bad for Kaon. Tarn wanted to know what had happened to his favourite Doctor.

“Actually I didn’t see anybody. I stayed behind on the ship. Ratchet saw Pharma though.” And Tailgate proceeded to give more details.

“A sonic virus?!” Tarn spluttered.

“Yeah! Ratchet said he should’ve set it off right outside DJD headquarters!”

Vos shivered.

Kaon scowled.

Helex muttered, “I’m gonna make that guy _eat his brain_.”

Tesarus glanced up from his game. “I thought you already _did_ that.”

Helex shot Tailgate a look. Tailgate, oblivious to that conversation, was informing Tarn that nobody on the _Lost Light_ had seen the DJD on Messatine. “Which is probably a good thing,” Tailgate continued, “even if I do kind of think Swerve is exaggerating about how scary they are.”

Vos hissed.

“What happened to Pharma?” Tarn inquired.

“Nobody wants to hear about your _endura_!” Kaon snapped.

“He is _not_ my _…”_

“Oh,” Tailgate said, suddenly serious. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

With a dawning sense of dread, Tarn asked the necessary question. “…why?”

“Because he’s not practicing medicine on Messatine any more.” Tailgate’s explanation made it clear to Tarn that he would not be getting any more T-cogs from Delphi when the DJD returned to Messatine. And no more Pharma for him to torment. Honestly, Tarn wasn’t sure which he was going to miss more, and the realization shocked and upset him.

Not to mention the _sonic virus_. Tarn wasn’t sure whether to be _enraged_ or _proud_ of Pharma’s devious little mind and the uses to which it had been put.

Tarn was going to miss that egotistical little medic.

Miserable, he guzzled down the rest of his Tagan Sunrise and started in on the War Dawn. He barely listened as Tailgate prattled on about Fortress Maximus, movie nights, rewiring someone or other’s brain, Temptoria, meeting Thunderclash, Hedonia, Overlord…

… _Overlord?_


	3. Everything Old Is New Again

Chapter Three

“Why don’t you tell me _all about_ Overlord,” Tarn purred, placing a hand on the arm of his new little friend. Now…finally…some answers!

Tailgate looked a bit uncomfortable. Tarn hummed under his breath, projecting sensations of calm and compliance. He could see Helex shooting him a dirty look; next to him, Kaon had a dreamy smile on his face, his chin propped up on his hands. All right, so Tarn’s power was affecting his fellow DJD members. Tarn didn’t care. He wanted… _needed_ …to know how this little bot had come back from the dead after Tarn had shoved a girder through his spark chamber.

Tailgate, however, was hesitant. “I, um, I don’t know if you want to hear the details.”

“Oh, we _do_ ,” Tarn said, pouring on the sensation of reward hovering just a few words away.

Tarn had just begun to ramp up his humming when Tailgate interrupted. “I should probably tell you I can’t stay too long…not that it hasn’t been fun hanging out with you guys, you’re really cool, but my friend and I are going to be meeting up soon. He just had some banking to take care of, I guess he has some old accounts and things, and he said it would be really boring for me to stand there waiting for him, and I should get out and do some sightseeing, you know, have some new experiences, meet people, live a little…and he’d meet up with me when he was done.”

“Yes, yes,” Tarn said dismissively, wishing Tailgate would hurry up and get to the important part. “ _Tell me about Overlord_.”

Tailgate looked guilty. He stared at his hands. “I, um, I don’t know if I should.” He was clearly struggling between the appeal of Tarn’s subliminal tantalization and his own reservations. “People _died_ ,” he choked out.

“Yes,” Tarn soothed, because people _had_ died, everyone aboard the _Lost Light_ in fact, and Tarn needed to know what Tailgate had seen, what Tailgate had done… “It’s all right. Just… _tell me_.”

“Overlord got loose and…” 

Tarn leaned forward, his treads pricking with anticipation, when Tailgate suddenly stood up. “Oh. Sorry. It was great to meet you, but it looks like it’s time for me to go.”

Tarn felt his fuel tank chill. So much for _willing victim_. 

Tarn shot a quick glance at the bartender, wondering if maybe he could drag Tailgate under the table and let Vos have a go at him while the big bots blocked the view of what was going on. The bartender was looking right back at him.

So much for that plan.

Tailgate couldn’t _leave_. Tarn still had no idea what was going on.

Kaon was the one who leaned in closely, gave Tailgate a big, creepy smile and purred, “What? Leaving so _soon_?”

And Tailgate, utterly oblivious to the creepiness, said, “Yeah. My friend is here.” He stretched out his arm in the direction of the bar’s entrance.

Tarn followed where the minibot was pointing and felt his energon grow cold. _This_ bot he _definitely_ recognized, and all because of that stupid bet with Helex.

The bet had happened during a bar night after that humiliating incident with Fulcrum and Grimlock. The DJD had all felt the urge to drink until they felt better about not killing the K-classer and his pathetic friends on the spot. They’d stopped off at a space station and gone through their usual bar routine: massacre everyone, eat the fuel, play the games, take the valuables and bring every keg they could find back to the _Peaceful Tyranny_. Autopilot engaged, they continued the party.

Tesarus, easily bored, had plugged in his games console and started playing…what? Tarn could never keep those damned holo games straight. It was probably one of the Summons to Service series, which was Tesarus’ favourite, but it was also possible he’d been playing Cogs of Combat or one of the countless StS clones. 

Tesarus had just made a move where his heavily armed and armoured character executed a neat back flip and shot an enemy behind him with his long range laser. Helex, already three flaps extended to the breeze on energon shooters, said something to the effect of _as if anyone that heavy could do that in real life. You’d need some scrawny little scout for a move like that._

Tesarus claimed it was possible, Helex denied it, and then Tarn—who’d been only half paying attention to the conversation—looked up at the sound of his name.

“I totally _bet_ you that Tarn could,” Tesarus said, in a tone that implied great confidence in his leader’s prowess.

And Tarn…more than a little overenergized himself…had asked _do what_ and Tesarus had demonstrated by reloading his last save point. Tarn watched with horror, inclined to agree with Helex, but….but more than a little pleased by Tesarus’ belief in him and just a tiny bit irritated at the disapproving glower on Helex’s face. Or maybe it was just the engex talking when Tarn asserted that yes, he could do that if he _wanted_ to.

“I’ll _take_ that bet,” Helex said with a smirk, and then Kaon had popped up and indicated that the bet wouldn’t work unless Vos agreed to take part because he was the closest thing anyone had to a long-range laser.

Tarn had felt relieved, because Vos would surely decline and get him out of this stupid bet. Vos, though, had hissed in clear delight and given Kaon the thumbs-up. Apparently the rifle-bot had felt that Tarn had been neglecting his services in combat lately. 

_Beware, the revenge of the disposable class_ , Tarn thought.

Kaon, delighted in his usual role as bookie and arbitrator, laid the odds and collected shanix from Tesarus and Helex. Tarn, irritated, demanded what he would get out of this stupidity and Tesarus agreed to split his winnings if he won, given the odds were not in his favour. Vos argued that his share should come out of Tesarus’ portion, not Tarn’s, and when they’d finally dickered it out they were all on the verge of recharge.

And Tarn was stuck in a stupid bet.

He was no acrobat. He’d been graceful enough in the Golden Age, back before he’d upgraded to his current alt mode, but there was a big difference between being a halfway decent dancer and being able to turn flips in the middle of combat. Still…managing Tesarus had always been a bit of a challenge. He was very good at his job, enthusiastic and loyal, but sometimes Tarn got the idea that Tesarus thought his leader was…oh, what was the word? _Stuffy_. Tesarus wanted to follow someone like the main character of Summons to Service.

And the _look_ on Helex’s face would be so very _worth_ it. It wasn’t even about the shanix.

So Tarn practiced, with Vos standing guard, and nobody else in the DJD saw the number of dents and dings that Vos hammered out of Tarn’s frame when practice went poorly. Over time, though, the number of injuries diminished. Tarn had, after all, been a rather good dancer before the war.

Oh yes, he still had his moves.

By the time the DJD located Overlord, Tarn was ready. He was confident in his skill, but if he messed up…well, the whole DJD had just been through an embarrassment thanks to Fulcrum and his bottom-feeding associates. Since the whole unit had just been reminded what humiliation felt like, Tarn would get off easy should he screw up. If he didn’t, though…well, winning that bet would just be the icing on top of an Overlord-and-Autobot layer cake. _Delicious._

Professional obligations came first. Overlord dispatched, Tarn found himself with an entire ship’s worth of targets, and, as they said in the DJD, a little time to _kill_. Time to win himself a bet. Oh, who to choose?

The purple mechanism with the mismatched horn stood out from the rest of the crew on first glance. Tarn knew the type: a warrior, not a solider. Smouldering optics watched the DJD charge not with fear or resignation but with anger and, yes, the tiniest little spark of glee. This mech’s spark was a furnace, fuel awaiting a spark, fury seeking justification. This mechanism would fight, and more than that—he would enjoy it.

Had he worn a Decepticon brand, he might have been DJD recruit material.

He didn’t, though, and he stood with Autobots. That was all Tarn needed to know. This mechanism was not an ally, and so, he was a target. Fodder, like all the other crew members aboard the _Lost Light_.

The horned warrior would be feral and merciless, all primitive wrath, a counterpoint to Tarn’s coolly plotted exterminations. Tarn’s kills were _art_. This savage would just hack and slash until his targets stopped moving. 

There was no lesson to be taught here, no wisdom to impart and no vendetta to satisfy. This mech was not a Decepticon, and his destruction would set no example. Drawing out the purple warrior’s death would serve no purpose. There was no reason to let the DJD get hacked and slashed for nothing, and, from one warrior to another, there was a certain respect given in a quick and clean kill.

So Tarn knew, even as he approached, that he would end the horned warrior swiftly, and yet…and yet…

He’d been doing this so long. Why not have a little fun?

It was _time_.

So with a quick command to Tesarus and Helex to _watch this_ , Tarn had signaled Vos. Vos had transformed, and Tarn caught him neatly, then pushed off the ground in a perfect flip and…

Oh. Just like they had practiced. Tarn had very fond memories of the purple warrior’s head exploding in a flash of fire. 

Clearly Vos did, too, because the sniper rifle let out a loud hiss and practically jumped onto Kaon’s lap at the sight of the new arrival.

Tarn narrowed his optics. Or…wait. This fellow in the doorway had _two_ horns. A different person? Or a repair job?

Then Tarn realized that Tailgate was _climbing over him_ to get out of the booth. “Excuse me,” Tailgate squeaked.

“Wait,” Tarn said desperately. “Why don’t you ask your friend to come join us?”

“I can try,” Tailgate said doubtfully, “but I did promise we’d do some stuff together before we went back to the _Lost Light_. Also, Cyclonus isn’t really a big group kind of person. That’s just the way he is and sometimes you’ve got to take people as they are, you know?”

 _Like Vos speaking in Primal Vernacular and Helex’s bubbling belches and backfires and Tesarus carrying his damned games around to keep from getting bored and Kaon’s disgusting pet that he adores so much?_ Yes, Tarn did know _exactly_ how it felt to accept people for who they were.

Unfortunately, right now he also knew what _frustration_ felt like, and it was never wise to irritate the commander of the feared Decepticon Justice Division. _To the Smelter with this_. Tarn’s patience was at an end. 

Tarn’s optics locked onto two targets: the chatty little Autobot and his horned companion. Tailgate gestured back towards the DJD’s table. The purple warrior looked up and…yes. Red optics widened. 

Tarn couldn’t resist. He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers in a wave.

A clawed hand closed on Tailgate’s shoulder as the taller mech wrapped a protective arm around his little friend. The bigger fellow began to hasten Tailgate on his way, murmuring something in his audio that Tarn couldn’t hear, but the urgency in his body language came through loud and clear.

An ominous whine sliced through the band’s music as Tarn’s fusion cannon spooled up power. 

_Catch. Interrogate. Kill._

Tarn’s fingers hooked into claws on the tabletop as he prepared to shove it away and get to his feet. His smallest finger brushed the side of his glass, causing his War Dawn to slop over onto his hand.

And partway to his feet, Tarn hesitated.

Seize the two mysterious robots, get his answers, send the place into a panic, and end the night with bloody slaughter?

Or sit back down and let them get away, knowing that the DJD would be able to keep their regular table at the one place in the universe where they could relax and blend in?

If those two enigmatic Cybertronians were Decepticons….oh, if those two were Decepticons, there would be no saving them.

But they were not. Tailgate was an Autobot and his friend…well, his friend had no visible faction logo, but according to Kaon’s list, the purple mech was definitely not a Decepticon.

The DJD’s mandate was to keep order among _Decepticons_. Autobots were… _extra credit_. Tarn and the DJD would not be shirking their duty if they let these two leave.

And if Tarn and the DJD pursued them, they’d lose the one place in the galaxy where they could blend in with a crowd.

Tarn curled his other hand around his War Dawn and picked up the glass. He slid the straw into his mask and drank deeply, considering. Slowly, he sat back down.

Just as Tarn finished the last of his drink, Tesarus looked up from his handheld game. The grinder followed where Tarn was looking and frowned in confusion. A ripple of light flickered across his X-shaped optical sensor. “Huh,” he said.

“Oh, what is it?” Tarn muttered irritably.

“Those two.” Tesarus gestured to the rapidly-departing Autobot and his purple companion. “Maybe it’s just me, but I could’ve sworn we’ve killed them somewhere before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and all the feedback I've gotten on what was a silly little scenario that got a bit out of hand :) If this fic gave you a laugh or two, then it's done its job.


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